


Tell Me When...

by coffeestainsfoggeduppanes



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, it's literally so sappy, there's barely any tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23619346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeestainsfoggeduppanes/pseuds/coffeestainsfoggeduppanes
Summary: A lazy summer day and vignette memories have Roger ponder about beginnings, endings and love.
Relationships: Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal
Comments: 1
Kudos: 41





	Tell Me When...

**Author's Note:**

> This was written so long ago when I first got into tennis, so, of course, it's Fedal. The quarantine and cancellation of tennis somehow drove me to post this oop-
> 
> Btw: It jumps between the past and present.  
> 

It was spring. Beautiful that time of year, they say, both locals and tourists; kissed by the Miami sun. Glowing under the sheaths of golden light that beamed through the leaves, thick and green. A cool morning, a slight breeze rustling the branches, the grass, the little hairs on the tennis balls that littered the courts. The constant _thwap_ that echoed across the courtyards, persistent, steadfast—a rhythm Roger has grown used to, has grown fond of. He was anointed, just a month before, the number one rank. It was too good to be true. For long.

***

_The deep scent of sweat and cologne. Spicy and mingled with the sweetness of lavender. Their purple bunches brightening under the heat, which pressed down, a solid weight that made one feel grounded, feel belonged. Their bodies were intertwined. What looked like a tangle of limbs was actually a carefully placed arm—where Roger likes to rest his head after a heavy lunch; a teasing leg—coiled around the thigh that Rafa still needed intensive physio on; palms laid on chests, shoulders, caressed faces and bruised lips. Eyes roaming, bleary but hungry, always hungry—on court, at dinner, in bed—never enough. It **was** never enough. But **this** is. Rafa trailed a finger across Roger’s eyelids, the slightest of touches, a ghosting second. “Is enough, no?”_

***

He had learnt to muffle the cheers now. _Like playing underwater_. Roger can’t remember who had said that _—_ maybe in a film? A book? _—_ but that was how he might describe it: a blurry haze of raucous sounds, sometimes punctuated by a particularly piercing squeal, a flattering chant. But water, mostly water. Rushing into his ears, blocking them out in waves. Serene and ferocious. All at once calming _—_ the weight of his racquet, the familiarity of court _—_ , and terrifying _—_ the weight of his shoulders, the scoreboard; a face he has never seen, a mind he has yet to read fluently. They never said it was to be easy.

But confidence was a necessary evil. It brought Roger all the way to the top, as a motivator, a launchpad. Now, he held it gingerly, tentatively. What pushed him up, may push him down _—_ and he had just gotten his streak. He cannot have it slip, have it wrenched out of his hands. Not now. It was too soon. After all, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. French Open, 1997. Wimbledon, 2002.

 _History repeats itself_. Roger shakes his head. Too fiercely. His ponytail comes undone (an omen? A sign?). _But it repeats._ Insistently. _Again, and again, and again…_

***

_They were awake now. They had been awake for hours, but only now were they willing to blink, to shift; albeit slow, deliberate movements to be closer together as the restlessness of a hot summer made gaps between them. Just as the sun rose: high in the sky and spilling into their room. The blinds not fully closed, betraying the darkness._

_“Hello, sunshine,” the Swiss whispered, to the sunrays, to the man in his arms. The latter glowed brighter._

_“Morning,” Rafa yawned, stretched. As if they haven’t already had hours of sleepy conversation. Half-awake, slurred speech about breakfast, the heat, to “move your arm”, and “hug me”, to “get up”, and not following through._

_Roger shook his head, a soft laugh bubbling along his lips. He noses Rafa’s cheek, “I don’t think it’s morning anymore,”_

_Rafa shrugged, unperturbed, “Afternoon then, Rogi.” He picks up a hand to sweep a loose curl behind Roger’s ears, “Good afternoon.”_

***

It is easy to be loved, but it is hard to maintain it. The press conferences, the interviews. They are endless. They are long and tiring and were salt stabbed into the rawness of practice, of matches. The same questions, over and over, his head spinning with different versions, different wording, but all of them are the same.

“What are you most concerned about with your match against such a big name today?”

_You’re not capable for this._

“How did you manage through those tough situations he kept throwing at you?”

_You could’ve have done better._

“Do you feel fresh for today’s match?”

_You don’t look it._

Smiles. Nods. Roger knows the drill. Laugh when they laugh. Pretend their question is original. Witty. Interesting. You’re number one, now. Act like it. And god damn it, he will.

***

_Coffee. Toast. Jam and chocolate spreads, just wafting through the air. Sliced through with orange juice, the tangy shock of it after sweetness. Roger sips his coffee slowly, the bitterness lingering on his tongue even after the cup is emptied. Rafa gulps his orange juice. His eyes fixed on the TV screen before him—flashing bright colours dancing in his deep, soulful eyes. He mindlessly crams food into his mouth. Crumbs, everywhere. The sheets, the pillows. It clings to the ends of his hair, hides within the crevices of his dimples as he grins, laughs, chews. Something happens on the television. Something funny, maybe. Rafa’s eyes simmer with an uncontained excitement. Roger doesn’t watch the TV. There is something far more entertaining before him._

_Time doesn’t seem to pass. How long have they been in bed? An hour? Maybe four. The strange relief of lazing afternoons comes rarely, but when they do, it is like they never end. And they savour every second, caught in this bubble of their own. Where limbs do not hurt, and fatigue is nothing but sleepiness, welcomed sleepiness. Rafa is laughing now, high and breathy and all grins. Roger didn’t say anything that funny, but Rafa crumples into a giggling heap as Roger’s snickers do not die down._

_They speak about their day, their year. Their memorised favourites. The book Roger has been reading, the dinner Rafa had with his parents. Never running out of words. There are just too many words to say, too many years they spent apart. Roger wants to know Rafa’s favourite ocean, the feeling that surges through him when he buries his feet under sand. Rafa asks after what makes Roger’s eyes light up, what films make him cry. The details, minute and fleeting in their minds, but so important. They need it described to them in excruciating clarity. They need to live these parts of the other’s life that the universe had so cruelly kept them away from._

_“Did you go diving often?”_

_“Si. Often. Every day if can. The ocean. In front of my house, no? I go anytime.”_

_“We’ll go together one day.”_

_“Tomorrow.”_

_“Okay. Tomorrow.”_

_“You learn so many?”_

_“Yes. English, German, Swiss and French. Swiss-German, if you count that.”_

_“Say in Swiss-German.”_

_“What do you want me to say?”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you, too.”_

_“No, say in Swiss-German!”_

_“Tell me about your favourite movie.”_

_“You already know. We watch everyday. Almost everyday.”_

_“I know. I want you to say it, though.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I like to hear you speak.”_

_“I speak all the time, no? Get tired after a while.”_

_“No. Never tired.”_

_“Never?” Rafa whispers, looking up as Roger thumbs his chin._

_“Never.” Roger whispers back, closing the gap between them. “How can I?”_

***

He checks the finalists. Twice. Again. Once more. His name, white against blue, his ranking in orange. The name underneath it, almost the same except there is no orange number. There is no top-30 ranking. _Rafael Nadal_. It tastes adventurous, intriguing. He had upset so many greats already. “And he’s just starting!” says the man on the radio, gushing over Nadal, the newcomer, the underdog. Something turns in Roger’s stomach. He can’t place it. It makes him shiver.

***

_They don’t leave the bed. Roger suspects they never will. He envisions tomorrow, and the day after that, for years to come. Eating over the sheets, hugging under the quilt. Sleeping with his arm around someone he thought he could never have. Roger forgets the worries about tennis. Just a second. In his mind, there is no competition or rivalry or smothering paparazzi. There is Roger. There is Rafa. And they are together._

_They whisper, honey-sweet everythings, letting the words fall loosely. It burns their skin, a fizzling as fingertips roam here and chocolate-smeared lips over there. Always touching. They can’t be apart for too long. It gets cold, where their arm is missing, where their toes do not meet. The warmth of summer seems to leave when their touches do. So, they don’t leave._

_“Rogi...” Rafa breathes into his neck, muttering some incoherent words that make no sense but produces the same effect: Roger feels a blooming in his stomach, his chest. A feeling he is so sure is love—pure and true—, that the very certainty of it sends a shiver through him._

***

Bits of magic trace tennis matches. It was in the air, permeated with salty sweat and earth. It was in the stands, the people. Brought together by slicing racquets, the thrill and adrenaline of loss and victory. It was—a little, a lot—enchanting. To stand on a court, hard underneath their feet. Feeling the waves of energy from the crowd. The aches of lost sets but triumphant matches that brought them here. As Roger stepped into the court, he had barely registered the face in front of him, the face that was in the locker room. Head down, eyes forward. Then up and smiling at the crowds. Waves here and there. Routine. It keeps him sane.

As he places his bags down at his chair, he steals a glance. Bright red, bright white. Skin, tanned and sheen. Caramel, honey, something sweet. He gulps. He could feel the nerves, the excitement, radiating off his opponent. The energy pulsating, sparks and crackles. Like magic. Roger looks away. Quickly.

***

_21 questions. Roger remembered playing it with Diana on long car, bus, train rides. When he was bored, and he was already reprimanded twice for fidgeting. He played it now, but the flurry of questions didn’t stop after 21. They just had too many: their first kisses, their first girlfriends and boyfriends. Their first time—drinking, winning. Their first injury, and surgery, and did it still hurt? Did they like school, did they like their teachers, did they get in trouble a lot, so rebellious. Then, “you love me?” And “how can you think otherwise?” And then, “When?”_

_Rafa, suddenly serious, suddenly urgent. “When did you love me?”_

_“Everyday. I fall in love with you every day. Over and over again.”_

_Not enough. “Tell me when.” Rafa insists, “The first time. The first love you have for me.”_

***

Roger exhales, feeling his mind declutter, his chest clear. He bounces the ball along the baseline and looks up. He looks up. And for the first time, he greets his opponent. Really, clearly, truly sees him. In those bright white shorts, and godforsaken grin. _Rafael Nadal_.

***

_Roger bites his lip. Too many. Too many to choose from. The memories muddling together, because they all felt the same: a slow, consuming feeling that took years to be given a name. When they met at the after-party, over cocktails and champagne? Or when their hands brushed walking beside each other towards the stadium? Maybe when they sat, side-by-side, in press conferences? Sliding each other cheeky looks at stupid questions, repetitive questions? A hidden language that only they spoke, only they were privy to._

_***_

Nadal was seventeen. Only seventeen. Lithe and built, his arms on display. No one else can show off their arms like that. Something strikes within Roger—Rafael’s eyes? His skin? Something. Something piercing—and his first serve misses its mark. Too long, too much force, an omen for the future he has yet to realise.

He feels dizzy. Maybe it was the heat again, its lasting effects from Indian Wells. Or maybe not. It curls within him, tendrils dark and glossy like the ones that brushed the exposed shoulders of his new opponent. He returns Roger’s second serve with a kick in his step. That little quirk, so gorgeously simple, so miniscule. Roger nets his second response, and he turns away, quickly. _Rafael Nadal._ He lets that name sit in his mouth, turning over his tongue. _Rafael Nadal._ Roger shakes his shoulders, suddenly feeling a weight pressing down, grounding him. The start of something, a feeling, was blossoming in the hollow of his chest. He tries to shake it, but he can’t. And he never will.

***

_Roger chuckles. A slight smile, a decisive nod. Rafa, playfully petulant, buries his face into Roger’s arms. Roger sweeps his lips over Rafa’s ears, taking in the scent of salty sweat and sea water, traces of yesterday’s swim, of his childhood at sea._

_“Tell me when.” Rafa whines._

_And Roger, in a voice enchanted, Miami rolling in the corners of his mind, whispers:_

_"It was spring...”_

**Author's Note:**

> I literally had watched like two tennis highlight videos when I wrote this.


End file.
